


Daydream

by SassyEggs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sansa POV, Vale - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 08:52:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11272119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs
Summary: Alayne's imagination comes to life





	Daydream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pinkolifant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkolifant/gifts).



> A quick one-shot I cranked out this morning, probably a bit unpolished. And as per usual I could NOT think of a decent title. But here it is anyway lol
> 
> For pinkolifant, just because :-)

“Little bird.”

It was a breath of cold water, those words at that moment, coaxing her heart to a gallop though Alayne knew better than to show it. Instead she stared at the snowy tableau before her as if no one had spoken at all, prompting Myranda to nudge her and point at what she was referring to.

“Right there. The black and yellow one. Do you see it?”

“I do,” Alayne agreed dully, pushing snow off the ledge with a finger to hide her relief. “How very odd- it’s far too cold for such a little thing.”

“It’s far too cold for _everything,”_ Myranda complained.

And that was the truth. Winter had come at last, blanketing the Vale in more snow than usual and wrapping its inhabitants with a chill they couldn’t shake no matter how many logs they threw on the fire. And every day brought new people to the Gates of the Moon, fleeing the winter, searching for food, hoping for shelter. Which her father provided- for a price, of course- welcomed them with open arms like the benevolent lord he ~~pretended~~ tried to be.

Alayne was always involved in some way, father wanting her with him in order for her to learn. She’d arrange sparse meals or sparser accommodations for every man, woman, and child that arrived, for trappers and traders and farmers, from the most pious to the most unholy and every sinner in between.

There _was_ no sin on the brothers, though, who’d arrived only a few days ago with no intention of staying, mostly silent and unobtrusive and not wanting much, just some shelter from the worst of the storm, perhaps a little food if it’s not too much to ask. Courteous. Motley. Three of them in total and one of them much much taller than the other two, drawing her eye and making her blood _thump_ in her veins.

 _The Hound._ The name was there before she could correct it, pushing itself into her head and settling into her chest no matter how hard she tried to keep it out. It couldn't be- it could not be- and yet three days had passed since they’d arrived and she had not been able to forget it. It sparked her imagination more than she would have liked even though fantasies were what _children_ had and she was not a child anymore.

Besides. Alayne didn’t even _know_ the Hound.

And yet he started plaguing her dreams, this man she wasn’t supposed to know, crawling into her bed and demanding a song like in a different dream, with a different girl, in a different life. And she would reach for him like she did in some forgotten detail but he would disappear like smoke between her fingers, and she’d be _glad_ of it, glad he was gone. But other times she would call to him- “Sandor, _please_ …”- though she had no reason to say that name, no reason to even _know_ that name, absolutely no reason at all to believe he might come for her. Not after he’d _abandoned_ her.

Besides. That man was too small to be the Hound.

The man who haunted her memories was enormous, filling her thoughts with just the size of him, crushing out any other intruders both old and new. And he was never, ever pious- the Hound would _never_ be a taller-than-most-but-still-too-small holy man. No, it wasn’t him, and she shouldn’t be thinking about him. Those memories belonged to a girl she no longer knew, a girl who should have died on the steps of Baelor with her fath… with Lord Stark. And it did no good to dwell on the thoughts anyway, merely _thinking_ of him was not helpful.  

And besides. The Hound was dead.

He was alive and well inside her, though, always dreaming dreaming dreaming of rescue like a maiden of song, wishing that someone would care enough about her- about _her-_ to take her away from there, take her home or just somewhere safe or

_Somewhere that isn’t burning._

And at some point that _someone_ had become him, and the dreams became bigger, brighter, till she was full to the brim of him even when awake.

“I knew you’d come,” she imagined saying to him, and he’d be surprised how she wasn’t frightened of him anymore, how she even _knew_ not to be frightened of him anymore. And maybe he would try to scare her, like he used to, and she would tell him firmly that he couldn’t hide the truth, not from her- he was the truest knight she had ever known.

He would laugh at her, of course; she thought she would like it if he did.

He’d laugh even more if he knew the stories she told of him, of his gallantry, his bravery, his chivalry. And _always_ with scars- she was careful to remember those- because they were part of him, indelible- unshakable- like the man himself, the man who wouldn’t leave her alone, wouldn’t leave her dreams or her imagination because he was _welcome_ there, she _wanted_ him there, needed him close for unnamable reasons, so close that sometimes she could almost _see_ him. As if her mind were playing tricks on her.

It was madness, and nothing more. But it was _not_ madness that woke her in the dark of the night before her wedding, eyes opening on a large figure crouched in her moonlit room and a soft rasp that said-

“Little bird.”


End file.
